Camelot was gone.
Arthur recognised the shape of the hills where it had once stood. There was still a forest to the east, but the trees were all wrong, too tall and too thin, with barely any undergrowth to hide their young roots. There were traces of the city walls, but none of the castle, though little red flags were marking a grassy area that perhaps, if one squinted, vaguely resembled the shape of what had once been the courtyard, many centuries ago.
A lonely tower stood at the end of a winding gravel path to Arthur's right, its walls crumbling. A sign proclaimed it to be the last remaining turret of the legendary King Arthur's keep, but Arthur knew better. The white stone looked like it might have been repurposed from the fallen citadel, but the style of the tower was off. Camelot's turrets had been perfectly round with pointed roofs, he remembered that clearly, whereas this one was square-shaped and topped with ragged battlements.
None of his men had ever guarded this tower, no Pendragon king ever climbed its stairs to survey his lands and yet, someone had hung a red-and-gold banner off its side as if to stake claim, the cloth fluttering in the autumn wind.
Arthur shuddered, and it wasn't from the cold.
Guinevere seemed to sense his unease, reaching out to intertwine their fingers as they walked down the cobblestone road towards the museum. Arthur looked at her. She was smiling softly, though there was a sadness in her eyes that reflected his own feelings on seeing everything so irrevocably changed.
A lump formed in Arthur's throat and he swallowed heavily, squeezing Guinevere's hand, providing comfort as much as seeking it.
"This is weird," Gwaine spoke up. "Whatever the opposite of a déjà vu is, I'm feeling it."
Arthur looked over his shoulder to catch Gwaine's expression. It was eerie how much he looked like the mouthy knight from his dreams. The cape had been replaced by a black leather jacket, his breeches by fashionably faded jeans, and yet, the hair was the same and the stubble, the sceptical look he had once liked to direct at those of noble blood now aimed at their surroundings.
"It's strange," Leon agreed. He was walking one step ahead of Gwaine, looking taller than Arthur remembered. His curly hair was cropped short, his beard missing, though he still exuded the familiar level-headedness of the First Knight. "I know that it's the same place," he added hesitantly, "but it doesn't feel like it. It's not…"
"Home," Arthur finished for him. "It's not home."
Murmurs of agreement rose from the others – Percival, Elyan and Lancelot, all walking behind Arthur. Without aiming to, he had taken the lead with Guinevere: the King and Queen, followed by their loyal entourage.
Except that one of their party was missing. Perhaps the most crucial member.
"And you really think he's here?" Arthur asked, speaking quietly enough so only Guinevere could hear.
"He wasn't at the lake," she replied, in the same hushed tone. "I don't know where else he would have gone."
"Anywhere else," Arthur suggested, his voice growing thicker. "Far away from here, I should hope, to lead a happy life."
Guinevere shook her head. "He wouldn't leave."
Arthur looked at his feet, the soles of his boots squelching against the wet cobblestone. It must have rained only hours ago. "No. Probably not," he conceded. "He never left back then, either, did he? He stayed, for all those years, even though…" He trailed off, unable to put into words what Merlin had endured; his pain and suffering, the sacrifices he had made, to keep Camelot safe.
"He did it for you," Guinevere said. "He stayed for you. You must know that."
Arthur did know that, and he hated the thought.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by their arrival. They had reached the entrance to the museum, a modern two-storey glass cube with a flat roof, entirely misplaced between the mediaeval ruins and the rolling green hills. Bold, black letters had been stencilled right onto the windows: The King Arthur Museum .
"Would you look at that," Gwaine chuckled, coming up behind Arthur to sling an arm over his shoulder. "A thousand years pass and this one still gets places named after him." He grinned. "Don't let it get to your head, my lord ."
"Oh, piss off," Arthur muttered and shoved him away.
"Still as charming as ever, eh?" Gwaine teased him, but backed away. "Don't worry. Merlin will be sure to call you out on your prattish ways soon enough."
Arthur's stomach twisted sharply. "We don't even know if he's here," he retorted.
"He'll be here," said Lancelot, calm as ever. "Merlin would never leave Camelot." He stepped past Arthur and Guinevere to hold the door for them, dipping his head. "After you."
Arthur was acutely reminded that he had once accepted such deference without a second thought – expected it even. Now, it felt all wrong. Too much had changed. He was no longer a king, nobody special, really. Just a man with memories of a time long gone.
Some things, however, hadn't changed: Arthur wasn't a coward. And so, he schooled his features, pushed down the swell of anxiety rising up his throat and walked into the building with his shoulders squared.
The museum was near-empty. The door had led their group right into the exhibition. A middle-aged couple was looking at the pictures and signs on the wall with interest, while their teenage son was preoccupied with his mobile phone, swiping at the screen with a bored expression.
Arthur glanced around, looking for any sign of the old Camelot, though neither the suit of armour in the corner nor the maces on the wall looked like they stemmed from the right era. He didn't know what he had expected. Something familiar. A faded tapestry from the throne room, perhaps, or some dented silver plates from the kitchens, out on display.
As it looked, though, nothing had survived but stories, exaggerated or embellished, or simply made-up. The glory of Camelot, reduced to myth and fairy tales, the faintest ghost of it captured in cheap trinkets from the souvenir shops in the nearby villages.
All that had once been his, everything which he had sworn to protect – faded, plundered, destroyed.
With a shaky breath, Arthur forced his thoughts back to the present. There was no entrance fee, though a shiny donation box asked for a fiver to pay for the upkeep of the museum. Arthur reached for his wallet with a rueful smile, thinking he might as well, though he halted when Guinevere's hand shot out and curled around his wrist.
"Arthur!" she gasped. "Look!"
Arthur followed her gaze and froze.
A young man had appeared from behind a partition wall just a few steps away. He was tall and lean. His dark hair curled messily around his ears, in dire need of a cut, though he was clean-shaven and his clothes neat. He was wearing the uniform of a museum docent, black slacks and a blue dress shirt. A lanyard with a name tag was slung around his neck, the letters large enough to be read even from a distance.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered.
Somewhere behind him, Gwaine let out an excited hoot.
Merlin turned his head at the sound. When he spotted them, he smiled, dimples forming all over.
The expression hit Arthur like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind right out of him. He had been the recipient of that smile more often than he could possibly count, seen it in his dreams over and over and over.
Memories swamped him, clawing upwards and clamouring for attention, threatening to overwhelm him.
I haven't seen you smile these past three days. – I'm not sure there is a great deal to smile about.
So you're not an idiot. That was another lie. – No, it's just another part of my charm.
Arthur shook off the visions, trying to focus on the man before him. It took him a moment to realise that there was something off about Merlin's smile, though the pieces didn't slide into place until Merlin had approached them and said, polite and professional, "Welcome to The King Arthur Museum ! I'm Merlin. If you've got any questions about the exhibition or the history of Camelot, feel free to ask me."
Arthur stared at him. "Merlin," he forced out, and nothing more.
Merlin's eyes turned on him. There was not a hint of recognition in his face as he met Arthur's gaze, his smile turning a little strained. "I know," he said. "It's not a marketing stunt, mind you, but my actual name. Believe me, I've heard all the jokes by now." He looked away, letting his eyes wander over their group. "Would you be interested in a free tour, by any chance? You need to book it in advance, technically, but it's been a very quiet day."
Nobody answered. With difficulty, Arthur wrenched his eyes away from Merlin's face to look at the others, seeing stunned expressions all over. All of them had been convinced they would find Merlin here, or at least nearby.
None of them had expected him not to recognise them.
When Arthur looked back at Merlin, he was frowning. "You don't have to, of course," he said into the awkward silence. "You're free to roam on your own."
It was Guinevere who overcame her shock first. "A tour would be lovely," she said, her voice breaking just a little when she added, "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin's frown vanished. "Brilliant. How about we start right over here?" He gestured at the nearest wall. "It's a historical map of the area. As you can see, the Romans settled around here as early as AD 45…"
They followed Merlin around the museum, quietly listening to his lecture on history. It was clear he knew what he was talking about, that he was passionate about it, too, though Arthur was barely listening.
He was too busy staring. It was eerie how little Merlin's mannerisms had changed. He still gesticulated as he talked, his eyes bright and expressive. He still held himself tall, as he always had, walking proudly and confidently, so unlike any peasant, any servant Arthur had ever met before.
But then, Merlin had never been just a servant.
"... King Arthur."
Arthur was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of his own name. They had moved upstairs to the second level, which seemed to be primarily focused on the history and legends surrounding Arthur's kingship.
"This," Merlin said, pointing at an enlarged copy of a manuscript page, "is the only surviving image of King Arthur commissioned during his reign. The art at that time was rudimentary compared to what we have now, of course, but we can assume they got the basics right: fair hair, blue eyes, tall stature. The King was an impressive fighter, who preferred his armour over courtly finery." Merlin let his eyes wander over the group again. "By all accounts, King Arthur was a well-respected ruler and much beloved by his people. Camelot prospered under his reign and his early passing devastated many. Even today, he is considered one of the greatest kings of Albion, if not the greatest of all."
Arthur had never experienced anything more unnerving than hearing Merlin talk about him in such a strange, detached tone, praising his accomplishments with not a hint of teasing or sarcasm.
The words had left his mouth before he could really think about it. "The greatest? Really?"
Merlin's eyes turned on him. "Yes," he replied. "Do you not agree?"
"No," Arthur said, with conviction.
Merlin's demeanour cooled off considerably. "And why is that, if I may ask?"
Everyone's eyes had turned on Arthur, though he kept his gaze on Merlin. "As far as I know, King Arthur's reign was short. Any policies he implemented couldn't have taken proper hold before he perished on the battlefield at Camlann." His eyes flickered to Guinevere as he went on. "In fact, a case could be made that it was his wife's rule that led Camelot to prosperity. Her decades-long reign probably had more of an impact on the land and its people than the few short years in which her husband wore the crown."
Guinevere promptly averted her eyes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She had flushed and a grinning Elyan was elbowing her side.
When Arthur looked back at Merlin, his smile had returned. "A fan of Queen Guinevere, are you?" he said, much warmer than before. "That is her, by the way, on the picture to the right." He gestured to another illustration, surprisingly accurate despite its simplicity. "You are correct, of course. She reigned far longer than King Arthur and it was under her rule that Camelot, and subsequently all of Albion, entered the Golden Age. Scholars agree, however, that she could not have done it without her husband's unprecedented reforms. It was King Arthur who laid the groundwork by elevating commoners and negotiating lasting peace with neighbouring kingdoms. Albion would not be what it is today without him."
He looked at Arthur expectantly, as if daring him to disagree again.
Arthur cleared his throat, though his next question still came out a little hoarse, "And what of his policies on magic?"
Merlin hid his reaction well. Anyone who did not know him as well as Arthur did might have missed the signs: the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the tightening around the eyes and mouth, the twitch of his eyebrows. "Magic?" he asked, after a heavy pause.
Arthur's stomach lurched. He recognised that tone, the careful casualness of Merlin's voice, the way he would not quite meet Arthur's eyes – preparing for a lie, for deception.
A thousand years, and Merlin was still hiding. Still afraid.
Perhaps that was why he did not recognise them. Perhaps he did not dare to, scared of what it might mean for him, or for the future.
Arthur would have to be brave for the both of them.
"Is it not true that magic was outlawed under King Arthur as well as under his father, a crime punishable by death, and was only allowed to return under Queen Guinevere?"
Arthur could hear the others shift nearby at his words. Someone murmured something, but it was drowned out by Merlin's dry laugh.
"You understand those are merely legends?" he said, with false condescension. "Geoffrey of Monmouth and the scribes following in his wake embellished their tales, changed history or added to it as they pleased. Magic is a metaphor, religious or chivalric, depending on the author. It's not to be taken literally."
Arthur would not be so easily deterred. "And Merlin? The mighty sorcerer and Camelot's protector? Was he a metaphor, too?"
Merlin's expression tightened. "There is absolutely no proof that Merlin existed, even in the form of a non-magical advisor," he said. "We know that King Arthur was a real person, but Merlin likely was a creative addition to the tales, nothing more."
"How do you know?" Arthur pushed.
"There would have been documents or accounts," Merlin explained, like he wasn't arguing against his own existence. "There are written records of King Arthur knighting commoners – Sir Elyan, Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival and many others. Their family crests can be found in manuscripts across Albion. There are notes on what issue they had, which lands they held and bequeathed. If a man named Merlin had an actual place of importance at King Arthur's court, there would be something there."
"Perhaps he wasn't a nobleman," Arthur argued. "He might have been someone of lower rank. Someone easily overlooked, someone who stayed close to the King and worked from the shadows."
"How do you mean?" Merlin asked. He sounded dismissive, disinterested even, though his whole body had gone strangely still.
It was an effort for Arthur to keep his voice even. "He could have been a servant."
Merlin blanched. In fact, Arthur had never seen someone's face so rapidly lose any trace of colour. It made him look like a ghost.
Trembling, Merlin raised a hand as if to press it against his mouth, then aborted the movement and took an abrupt step back. "A servant," he repeated, though the word was barely above a whisper. His lower lip started trembling, his eyes wide and transfixed by Arthur's face.
Arthur stared him down. It's me, don't you see? he thought. I'm here.
Merlin sucked in a sharp breath. He took another step back, his eyes flickering away, catching on Guinevere, then Lancelot, then Gwaine. "You—I—Excuse me," he stammered and turned on his heel.
Before Arthur or anyone else could stop him, he was gone, careening down the stairs to the lower level, nearly running over an elderly visitor in the process.
"You spooked him," Guinevere said, failing to keep the reproach out of her voice.
"Poor sod went white as a sheet," Elyan added, grimacing.
"Well done, Your Majesty," Gwaine spat, already shouldering past Arthur to follow Merlin, only for Lancelot to step in his path.
"Give him a moment," he said, holding out his arm. "He hasn't seen any of us in a literal millennium. It's bound to be a shock."
"He shouldn't be alone right now," Gwaine argued, trying to move past him again, but was held back by Percival, as tall and bulky as he had ever been, if a little bald.
"Lancelot's right," he said calmly. "Leave him be for now."
Gwaine scowled, but stood no chance against Percival's grip.
"You could have been a little less confrontational, sire," Leon said from Arthur's left, throwing him a disapproving look.
Arthur crossed his arms. "Don't call me that," he snapped.
He was fighting an urge to chase Merlin down himself, guilt and anger churning in his stomach. Leon was right, of course. He shouldn't have put Merlin on the spot like that: easing him into the revelation would have been better than forcing it.
Guinevere's hand appeared on his forearm, squeezing it lightly. "What's done is done," she said. "He'll come to us when he's ready."
But Merlin didn't come.
They lingered on the top floor for nearly half an hour, watching the stairs for Merlin's return before venturing back to the first level, though there was no trace of Merlin there, either. If he was still in the museum, he must have retreated to a staff-only area.
Eventually, they all gathered at the entrance. It took Arthur a moment to notice that everyone was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for orders, even grim-faced Gwaine. He couldn't say he was comfortable with being thrown into the position of leader again but then, he had never chosen to be King back then, either.
It was a responsibility you were given and expected to live up to.
"We should leave," he decided. "We can always come back another day. Give him some time to come to terms with it on his own."
The others exchanged meaningful glances, though nobody argued, deferring to him, as they always had.
Arthur hid a grimace and made for the door.
Outside, the wind had picked up considerably and summoned an icy drizzle. Arthur turned up the collar of his coat as he made down the cobblestone road towards the car park, only to still when he spotted a figure up the winding path to his left.
Even from a distance, he could tell it was Merlin, standing by the tower. He had donned a hideous, red rain jacket, impossible to miss in the slate-grey weather.
Arthur redirected his steps before he could think better of it, his shoes crunching loudly against the gravel as he stepped off the road.
Nobody followed him.
The path went uphill and was longer than it looked. Still, Merlin didn't notice him until Arthur was just a few steps away from him.
He was hunched over against the rain, clutching a half-smoked cigarette with trembling fingers, muttering to himself. When he finally looked up, his face was drawn, his hair a damp mess. The cigarette slipped from his fingers the second he saw Arthur, and he stilled.
He looked terrified, and seconds away from bolting again.
Arthur shoved his hands in his coat pockets. On a whim, he nodded at the fading glow of the cigarette. "They're poison, you know. Absolutely terrible for your health." He aimed for a smirk. "What would Gaius say?"
Merlin gaped at him. There were several long moments of silence, until at last, a strained laugh escaped him. It sounded a little hysterical. "I know," he said shakily. "Doesn't matter, though, if you're…" He trailed off.
"Magic?" Arthur suggested. "Immortal?"
Merlin's eyes fluttered closed for a second. "Yes," he managed at last, shuddering all over. "That." When he looked at Arthur again, his eyes were wet, and it wasn't from the rain.
Arthur had to force himself not to look away. It seemed a thousand years had not made him any more well-equipped to deal with a crying Merlin, but he owed him his full attention. "You didn't recognise us?" he asked quietly.
Merlin shook his head, an erratic sort of movement. "It's been a while," he breathed.
"You could say that," Arthur agreed.
Merlin's eyes started roaming over him, taking him in. Arthur let him, not saying anything as Merlin looked his fill.
"You're exactly the same. I don't know why I didn't…" Merlin shook his head again, then murmured, "It's just that I can't trust myself anymore. It's all scrambled up there. Don't know what's real sometimes. Went straight for my pills just now, to make sure you're actually—"
He stopped, wrenching his eyes away to look into the distance.
Arthur stayed silent, unsure what to say to that and entirely unwilling to spook Merlin a second time.
Eventually, Merlin went on, "Do you know how often I've seen a blond man in a crowd, heard a voice barking out an order and I thought—I thought…" He sniffed. "Could have sworn I saw you on the battlefield once, during the war. Don't remember which one, mind you. Too many of them. There were guns, I think." He raised a hand to rub at his wet cheeks. "Gods, he looked so much like you. So much. I was sure. I was sure it was you. And then, he died. Shot, right here, where Mordred—" Merlin broke off, pressing a hand against his ribcage.
He had started shaking all over.
Arthur moved forward without conscious thought, reaching out.
Merlin startled, lurching backward, his eyes snapping back to Arthur's face. For a second, they were both frozen in place, staring.
"Arthur," Merlin croaked at last. "Are you really back?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "It's really me this time."
Merlin's face crumpled. "Oh." It was the barest hint of a word. Arthur had not known a single syllable could sound so heavy, so loaded with emotion. "Oh," Merlin repeated, trembling and jittering in the wind, though his eyes never wavered. "My King…"
Without warning, he collapsed, sinking to the ground before Arthur could reach out and prevent it.
Except that Merlin had not collapsed at all.
He was kneeling: purposely kneeling on the ground, his head lowered.
Arthur faltered, momentarily thrown back to a time when it had been his birthright to stand upon a dais and cast judgement, wielding the power of life and death over those who threw themselves on the ground before him and begged clemency, begged mercy.
Merlin had never been amongst those supplicants, but only, perhaps, because he had never found the courage to tell Arthur the truth until it was too late. If things had been different – if Arthur had been less a fool, Merlin less afraid – his servant might have knelt just like this and confessed his secret.
As Arthur looked at Merlin, bowing and trembling, it almost seemed as if a second layer had descended on the world, painting the hill with an echo of a grand throne room and summoning the phantom weight of a crown upon his head.
Within the blink of an eye, though, the vision was gone, leaving only Merlin, kneeling in wet dirt. "I failed you," he said, the words harsh, as if wrenched from somewhere deep within him, and followed by strangled sob. "I failed you and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, I—" He gulped in a wet breath, lowering his head even further. "I couldn't stop it. I tried to stop it. I swear I did, sire, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. No matter what I did, it just wasn't enough. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
Arthur had heard enough. Without a word, he pulled Merlin off the ground and into a tight embrace.
Merlin stiffened all over, more apologies tumbling from his lips, but Arthur only hauled him close, cradling Merlin's head against his shoulder and cupping his wet hair with his hand.
Merlin clung to him with all his might. "Arthur," he sobbed. "Arthur, I'm sorry."
Arthur closed his eyes and stroked Merlin's hair. "I forgive you," he told him, again and again. "It's all right. I forgive you, old friend."
He didn't think there was anything to forgive – if there had ever been, Merlin had done his penance, enduring ten centuries of loneliness. But Merlin needed to hear it, clearly, and so Arthur repeated the words, over and over, responding to Merlin's muffled apologies.
Arthur didn't know how long they stood like this. At some point, his arms started burning, forced to keep a sagging Merlin upright, but it didn't matter.
Arthur would hold him for a thousand years, if he had to. Merlin deserved nothing less.
It takes time, crying a millennium's worth of tears, but eventually, Merlin shifted out of Arthur's embrace, his face a blotchy, snotty mess.
"I'm sorry," he said again. It was a different sort of apology entirely, given with a sheepish look and a helpless laugh, his smile embarrassed.
Arthur chuckled. "Must you always be so dramatic?" he replied and reached inside his pocket, fishing for some tissues. "Kneeling in the dirt, really. And did you make it rain, too?"
Merlin sniffed. "Probably," he admitted as he accepted the tissues. "I can't always control it."
Arthur watched Merlin clean his nose and dab at his face, which did little to make him look presentable. His hair was wild and unruly, his nose and eyes as red as his ghastly jacket.
Really, one would think a thousand years would have given the man a better fashion sense.
"You're a mess," Arthur said, with all the fondness he could muster.
Merlin responded with a crooked smile. "You don't even know half of it." He dabbed at his nose again, sniffling some more. "Immortality? Do not recommend."
Arthur snorted, but before he could reply, crunching footfalls signalled the arrival of the others. Already, Merlin was looking past his shoulders, his smile widening as he took in the group.
"Gwen!" he exclaimed and then, he was past Arthur and throwing himself at Guinevere, who squealed and hugged him close, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Then it was Gwaine, who pressed a resounding kiss on Merlin's forehead, and Lancelot, and Elyan and Leon and at last, Percival, who lifted Merlin right off the ground in a massive bear hug. Everyone was chattering excitedly, with Merlin standing in the centre of the gathering, gesticulating and grinning – and crying some more, naturally, giant girl's blouse that he was.
Arthur stayed back, content to watch the reunion, a sense of rightness settling over him that had been missing from his life ever since the night he had first dreamt of knights and sorcerers and castles.
When Merlin finally turned back towards Arthur, he looked deceptively young. "What about the others?" he asked excitedly. "Morgana?"
"She's around," Arthur replied slowly. "She'd like to meet you, but she wasn't sure… well…"
Merlin's smile didn't waver. "I'd love to see her," he said, without a trace of anger or bitterness. "Who else?" He faltered a little. "Your father?"
Arthur grimaced. "I don't speak to him."
Merlin threw him a compassionate look. "Your mother?" he asked, though it sounded like he knew the answer.
Arthur shook his head.
Merlin nodded and didn't prod any further. "My mother?" he asked instead. "Gaius?"
Arthur hated to crush his hopes. "I'm not sure that everyone came back," he said cautiously. "And if they did, well… they might not exactly remember…"
Merlin's face fell, though he conceded, "Perhaps it's better that way…" His eyes grew distant. "Something's coming. Have you felt it, too?"
Arthur frowned, exchanging a careful look with the others. Guinevere frowned back at him, chewing her lip, while the knights shrugged or shook their heads.
"What do you mean?" Arthur asked.
Merlin's eyes had glazed over. There was a faint golden sheen to them, shimmering in the persistent rain. "Something's coming," he repeated cryptically. "Something dark. Something I cannot fight alone." He looked at Arthur, his eyes piercing enough to shake him to the bone. "When Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."
A strange shiver ran up Arthur's spine. Above him, the red-and-gold banner fluttered in the wind.
Merlin smiled. "Long live the King."